For once, Blüdhaven was quiet.

Too quiet.

Dick balanced on the edge of a rooftop, the city sprawled beneath him — streetlights flickering, neon signs humming, the sound of a siren far off. Nights like this were rare. No muggers, no car chases, no exploding warehouses. He could almost convince himself the city was… calm.

He was even thinking about turning in early. Maybe swing by your apartment. Maybe bring takeout — Thai, your favorite. He smiled at the thought of your expression when he showed up at your window, still in the suit. You always said the mask made his smile unfairly charming.

Then his comm buzzed.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice casual, already knowing who it was. “If you’re calling to say you missed me, you could’ve just—”

“Hey,” your voice came through, strained, quick. “So, um… hypothetical question — how fast can you get to the corner of Harbor and Fifth?”

His heart dropped. “Hypothetical? What did you—”

The sound of gunfire cut through the line.

“Okay, not hypothetical!” you yelped. “They’re definitely shooting at me!”

“{{user}}!”

He was already moving before his brain caught up. Grapnel line fired, vaulting across rooftops. The wind tore at him as he pushed the line to max tension, swinging hard enough to make his ribs ache.

Gunfire cracked through the comm, sharp and too close.

“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” he muttered under his breath, vaulting from one rooftop to the next. His heart was hammering faster than any sprint through the city ever had.

You'd mentioned the real estate case earlier that week, something about shell companies, suspicious investments, and a string of properties that didn’t add up. He should’ve known you'd dig too deep. You always did. It was one of the things he loved most about you — and the one thing that terrified him.

When he landed at the Dockside district, the place looked deserted. But he could hear shouting, the metallic echo of footsteps. And then — another gunshot.

“Not good,” he hissed, and dropped through a broken window.

The moment his boots hit the ground floor, he was moving — a blur through the shadows. Three men. Armed. Focused on the stairwell.

Big mistake.

He disarmed the first before he finished turning, flipped the second into a stack of crates, and swept the third with a kick that sent the gun skidding away.

“Really not your night, guys,” he muttered.

He sprinted up the stairs two at a time, the dim emergency lights painting everything red. Then he saw you — crouched behind a pillar, clutching your phone in one hand and a bent metal pipe in the other, hair disheveled, eyes wide but steady, because of course you were.

“Hey,” he said, landing lightly beside you, breath barely winded. “You call for a rescue or just miss me that much?”